


The Music of the Spheres

by ColdWarSaint



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Amputee Prussia, Anal Sex, Background GerIta - Freeform, Conman France, Fashion designer Romano, Human AU, M/M, Masquerade Ball, Modern Day Setting, Pianist Austria (Hetalia), Prussia and France BFFs, Romance, Veteran Prussia, background Rome/Hungary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25551745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdWarSaint/pseuds/ColdWarSaint
Summary: Gilbert Beilschmidt's life came to a crashing halt when his injuries overseas rendered him unable to continue his career path in the military, forcing him to move back in with his little brother. Coping with the aftermath of losing a leg, and losing what he thought was his only future, Gilbert finds himself drawn to a mysterious pianist, who spends time playing strange melodies at the witching hour. Melodies that resonate with Gilbert in ways he couldn't have anticipated.But Gilbert is more than able to cope with things on his own, and he definitely isn't chasing this guy, and he most definitely, definitely, can't be "understood" by some rich stranger who seems to be able to see right though him......right?
Relationships: Austria/Prussia (Hetalia)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 27





	1. Waking up, again.

Piano music: the first thing that he really noticed. A handful of notes carried on the breeze, landing at his heels, tripping up his steps. Piano music. 

_Someone is playing the…_ The first thing he'd really noticed about his surroundings since he started walking. The beat of his footsteps died out to make room for the music, his head cocking ever so slightly like a cat that had just picked up on the scurrying of a mouse. 

There were several strange things about the sound. One, it was late-- late, late at night-- and no one should have been up, much less playing music. Much less playing music... _Outdoors_? That was two. Three, the most striking, the thing that set this piano music apart from the kind that drifted into one ear and out the other from local cafés and shops, was that it was not pleasant. 

But "not pleasant" in the way that someone, somewhere close by him, was playing music _badly_. No. More as if someone... 

He turned on a heel, spinning to locate the sound more closely, to pinpoint which of the high stone walls it was slipping between the cracks of. 

...as if someone was playing discordant sounds with great intention. At the witching hour. 

Four. It felt right. 

Gilbert Beilschmidt didn't know what part of Munich he was in at this point. _Bogenhausen_? Didn't matter, really. That wasn't the point. He hadn't had a point. Then. 

Following the sound of the music, he came to one of the many walls of the alleyways he'd been snaking through. Vines grew up and around the wall he came to a stop at, hedges lining the top of it. 

"Hmmmm." Against the advice of multiple doctors and one far too uptight younger brother, Gilbert squared his shoulders. He slid his left foot a bit behind the brand new right one-- which he was in no way used to-- and coiled as much energy as he could manage into his muscles. 

"Okay!" And anyone who knew him would have flinched at the devilish grin that crept across his face. 

A grin that was almost immediately undercut by his subsequent leap and scramble up against the side of the wall, where his new foot did not work the way the one in flesh and blood managed. 

"Ah!" He caught ahold of a handful of vines but they ripped away under his fingers, and he fell backwards. "No, no, no--"

The ground was hard and unforgiving, knocking the breath from his lungs so that he couldn't eek out another sound of pain. _Ah... Stubborn bastard..._

Above him, or perhaps just somewhere beyond him, the music halted. 

"Is someone there?" A voice demanded. "Hello?" 

_That's an Austrian accent, if I'm not mistaken_. And Gilbert was so rarely mistaken. 

"Whoever you are! You should know I have a security team!" The voice pitched up, wavering slightly. 

_Oh, right. This guy sounds like a total prick. "A security team." I'll bet._

With a deep breath, Gilbert struggled to his feet, leaning against the wall. _This is stupid._

"I'm not a burglar!" Gilbert shouted in return, his lungs recovering from the shock. "I just... Fell!" 

Hesitation on the part of the mysterious Austrian pianist. And then, "you shouldn't be shouting so early in the morning!" 

"You shouldn't be playing terrible music!" Gilbert walked along the wall, running his hand against it. He had been stupid, a minute ago, but he _wasn't_ stupid, _he_ knew that. There was always an easier way. 

"Terrible!" Now the pianist just sounded offended. "Then you simply do _not_ have to listen! Why don't you be on your way, bumbling urchin!" 

_Urchin? What is this the 1800s?_ Gilbert offered no response, and, after a moment passed, the strange music began again. The wall came to an end, replaced by an iron gate behind which rose a few stairs. Gilbert pressed a hand to the gate. _Unlocked. I guess I have some luck after all..._

Up the stairs. Up past into a delicately maintained garden full of sharp lines. _This is probably a terrible idea._ But he'd been stuck in bed, locked up inside, hadn't had a terrible idea in months, and, frankly, he was more than past due for one. 

Gilbert came upon the piano player turning the corner of a perfectly rectangular hedge. _Not playing piano outside, then…_ Instead, all of the whitewashed doors had been opened to reveal a brightly painted music room. Soft light spilled out across the grass, it illuminated a man bent over a grand piano, hardly on the bench. 

What had Gilbert expected? It wasn't tousled dark hair, strands of it falling across a face locked in intense thought, as if someone had run their hands through it over and over again in frustration. It wasn't a loose nightshirt, hanging off of one side so that he could see the curve of a shoulder. _He's so..._

"I'm not a 'street urchin,'" Gilbert said. 

The musician leapt straight off of his bench, his dark eyes going wide, searching the night frantically, those eyebrows lifting. "You-- _why--_ how dare you! Get out of my garden at once!" 

Gilbert bit back a laugh. "I said your music was terrible, not that I didn't like it." 

He stepped forward, into the light cast from the room, so that the other man could inspect him in return. As soon as he was visible, he could see some tension ease in the pianist's shoulders; his look of fear was replaced at once with a look of disgust. 

Being albino, being, now, an amputee, Gilbert was familiar with all sorts of looks from pity to the aforementioned disgust. The way that this man did it, however, was completely unique: it felt universal in condemnation. As if Gilbert could have been _any_ person standing before him and he would have received the same contempt. 

"Why would you possibly like it?" The man snapped, after a moment.

_I'm surprised that wasn't another threat, another call for security teams._

"I don't know how to explain that. It just felt right."

"It--" The pianist looked him up and down, an emotion that Gilbert couldn't quite identify creeping into his expression, creeping into the way he slowly lowered himself back onto the piano bench. "... If you aren't a street urchin, what *exactly* are you?" 

_Not a bad sign!_ Because he was the way he was, Gilbert stride forward a few steps further, a few steps that brought his boots onto tile. He bent slightly at the waist and offered a hand. After all, he wasn't rude. 

"Ex-soldier. Gilbert Beilschmidt," he announced as though they might be the most important words this man ever heard. 

A noise of disgust. "Soldiers." And then he took Gilbert's hand very delicately, as if the touch would burn him. 

He had soft skin but for the callouses of someone who played stringed instruments. His touch was a whisper of contact, and the warmth it left behind was feverish. 

"I," he declared, as if trying to one up the way that Gilbert had spoken, "am Roderich Edelstein." He sniffed, a particular and pointed sound. Far more intentional than Gilbert had ever heard someone make it. "Pianist."

"I can tell," Gilbert couldn't help his cheeky tone, the slightly smirk that had gotten him trouble with commanding officers on occasion. 

"Yes, I'm sure you're very clever," Roderich's voice was dry, cutting, "wandering about at night like a common criminal and terrifying people who want nothing to do with--" It was as if the sight of the messily written notes on the page in front of those ivory keys snapped him into some alternate personality. "You said you liked it? The music?" 

"I did." 

"And that it... Felt right? Your words." 

"They are, yes." 

"Hmmm..." Roderich played a few notes, and then his fingers were again flying over the keys. "How?" 

_How_ ... The last half a year came to Gilbert in disconnected flashes of pain, disappointment, sand, boredom, and explanations that trailed off in all the wrong places. _Have you ever seen your own bones?_ He'd asked Ludwig in a white room, in a plain and white room. _No, I think it's fine_ . Standing in a kitchen that he didn't recognize because he hadn't planned yet to visit, much less to live with, much less to lie to. And through all of it there was no music, no scene, no person that broke through the haze hold his waking dreams: it all passed by like background scenery. Life _was_ normal. He was the one who... 

"It sounds like--" _someone is shaking me?_ He didn't have the words, he was never good with words. "--like my leg. Hurts." 

"I see," Roderich muttered. His tone was not one of compassion nor understanding. That didn't matter as much as the music underlying it. 

"You wouldn't, you have both of your legs," Gilbert joked. 

Roderich did not even bother to glance up, yet still somehow conveyed a stern look. "If that is really _all_ you have to say about my music, you are free to leave my home and company." 

_This guy really is a piece of work, isn't he?_ "Can I have your number, first?" 

"My--" the music stopped, the young man sitting straight upright. "Why do you think I would give out that sort of information to a vagrant who broke into my home? Who wanders about in the middle of the night? Who clearly lacks any form of respect?" 

"Hmmm," Gilbert leaned over the piano, "maybe because said vagrant is really, _very_ attractive." 

Roderich smacked his hand. "Do not *touch* my piano. You are certainly not _attractive_ and, besides, I wouldn't waste my time with some nameless-- hmph." He crossed his arms over his chest. "If I give you my number will you leave me alone?" 

"Deal." Gilbert stuck out a hand, the hand that had been smacked away so rudely. "Give me your phone." 

"Give you _my_ phone?! Do you not _trust_ me?" Nonetheless, despite the indignation carried on his voice, Roderich retrieved a sleek black phone from the other end of the bench, opening it with a fingerprint. 

Gilbert took the phone. "Don't take it personally. I don't trust anyone." He sent himself a text from the phone. ( ;) <3 ) 

The moment he was done, Roderich snatched the phone from his hands. "Do _not_ tell me how to take things!" He looked down at the screen and made another sound of disgust. "You're flattering yourself." 

"They say if you want something done right--" 

"Get off of my property, I mean it this time." 

————-

Gilbert was cutting up potatoes. A mostly mindless task, the knife passing through each half to create cubes. To his left the stove is already on, blue and yellow flames licking the bottom of the pan where triangles of sausage were sizzling. 

Before he started, he turned on the radio, let the music play, occasionally interrupted by bursts of static that meant he needed to adjust the antenna. Not that he heard any of it, anyways. 

His mind was still wrapped up in piano notes and dark strands of hair. _Edelstein, huh? Must be pretty rich..._ Had he written that music? What had _he_ meant by it? _Does he always play at night? Does he always look so... Disheveled?_

Gilbert's grip on the wooden handle of the knife tightened. 

"Brother!" A voice cut into his thoughts a moment before he felt a sharp pain in his index finger, the one holding the potatoes still. 

"Ow," Gilbert muttered, the crimson of blood immediately evident against his dead white skin. _Not a whole unfamiliar sight…_ A joke. 

A deep sigh from behind him. "I was going to warn you about your hand placement." That was Ludwig. A tan set of hands came down around Gilbert's slim shoulders and removed the knife from his grip, picking up the piece of potatoes he'd bleed on off the cutting board. 

"Maybe you are just tired?" It was a pointed question from Ludwig, seeing as Gilbert had intended for his little escape last night to be a secret but had come back with scraped hands and bruises. 

Gilbert popped the digit in his mouth, tasted the salty, coppery taste of blood. "Nah, I don't think so. I don't get tired. It's a thing they taught us in the military." 

"Get a bandaid. I will finish." Ludwig was growing again, that concerned kind of frown that Gilbert kept trying to explain to him would leave wrinkles. 

"Alright. I was getting to it." Gilbert inched around his little brother and, not for the first time, decided that should be a law against letting younger people be taller than you. 

He knew he should be more honest with Ludwig, about a lot of things. Maybe most of all the kind of pain he dealt with. Maybe not least of all the way he felt suffocated by such concern. And maybe never the way he knew he'd become a bit of a burden on his little brother, who had just started out in life as a real adult and probably didn't need...

Gilbert wrapped a band-aid tightly around the cut. Maybe too tightly. 

"Is your little friend coming over to dinner again?" Gilbert teased, leaning against the counter next to Ludwig, who always wore the same pink apron to cook. The one that Gilbert had gotten him as a joke when he was only sixteen. It was fraying a bit at this point. 

"It's likely," Ludwig said. 

Gilbert shook his head in mock disapproval. "When are you going to start warning me in advance about these things?"

Ludwig glanced at his older brother, looking a bit helpless. "It's not like he asks, is it?" 

And Gilbert would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy making Ludwig squirm. So he laughed, smacked Ludwig on the shoulder. "Oh, you're lucky he's so damn cute." 

Ludwig blushed. _There it is._ "I don't see what that has to do with it." 

"I think you do. I really think you do. After all, I like looking at--" 

Ludwig pointed the knife at him, gesturing with it. "He is too young for you." 

Gilbert held his hands up, laughing again. "What's this? You're _already_ protective?" 

"I--" Ludwig hastily put the knife down, turning his back on Gilbert to slide the potatoes in with the meat. "... Maybe I am." 

"It's big of you to admit that," Gilbert grinned. 

Ludwig looked back over his shoulder at him. "Brother, please do something useful instead of hassling me." 

Gilbert bit the inside of his cheek. "I was _trying_ to make dinner. But! I get it. You have to say you did, to impress the boy. Fair enough." 

"Brother." 

"I'm going, I'm going." Gilbert put himself to work setting the table. For three, just in case. 

_Just in case, who am I kidding?_ Anyone with eyes could see how much the kid adored his little brother. 

And, of course, the most consistently on time that Feliciano could be counted on to be was to dinner. Almost every day at this rate, the beaming auburn-haired young man would be at their doorstep with a bottle of something new, be it sparkling water or chilled wine, and would ask very politely if he could join them for dinner, to which he knew the answer would be yes. 

They'd ritualized it: dinner on days where Feliciano didn't show up had begun to feel much too quiet. That night he was wearing a dress with a button-up top and a skirt that flared out from his slim waist in colors as if it had been dipped in a sunset. 

_Too young for me, please, Ludwig, he's hardly five years younger._ But Gilbert was, always, Ludwig's wingman first and foremost. Since it wasn't often he had a reason to play that role, he wasn't about to actually try anything himself. 

Instead, Gilbert casually hyped up his little brother.

_Oh, haven't you heard about the work he did today? They should promote him!_

Ludwig worked as a mechanical engineer for BMW, headquartered in the city, fixing up old projects he found in junkyards on the weekends, occasionally helping out a neighbor with a problem that would have cost hundreds of dollars elsewhere. 

Feliciano, in return, told them everything he had heard that day, working on a mural in the heart of the city. He seemed to always know some gossip about something or other, politicians that neither of them had heard of. Today he went on about this masquerade ball that was not open to the public like the Ball der Silbernen Rose and others hosted at that theater. 

"Can you imagine?" Feliciano said, his eyes sparkling, a delicate wrist bent under his chin. "Being a family with a name important enough to go to a ~secret~ event like that?" 

"Pfft. I bet that kind of thing is boring. It's only a secret so that is lower classes don't realize that an evening in a bar is more exciting than anything rich people can come up with," Gilbert responded, almost on auto-pilot. 

Then he thought about it another minute, turned the idea of secret dances over in his head, and then snapped this fingers, interrupting whatever it was Feliciano was answering. 

"Hey! What about-- sorry, you were talking." 

"No, no, that's alright, you go on ahead!" 

"I was going to ask, what do you know about the family name Edelstein?" 

"Uhmm....." Feliciano titled his head, glancing up as if searching for the words across their ceiling. "Edelstein... Oh! Oh yes!" He clapped his hands together, the hands that were always, always moving, fluttering about as he spoke like little birds. "An Austrian family! I heard that they had royal blood! And more than a handful of famous musicians, isn't that exciting? I'm sure they're more than important enough to go to secret events!" 

Gilbert tried to imagine Roderich dressed in the outfit of royalty, and found he much preferred the version he'd encountered. "You're probably right..." He muttered, but Feliciano's giggle covered the sound, and allowed him to ignore the questioning look that Ludwig gave him. 

_A secret event, huh?_

———

9:15/Gilbert: Do you have a +1? 

9:20/Roderich: What nonsense is this? 

9:21/Gilbert: To the masquerade ball. 

9:25/Roderich: How would you know anything about that? 

9:26/Gilbert: I have connections. 

9:31/Roderich: If I were to take anyone, it would not be some ex-soldier off the streets. 

9:31/Gilbert: So that's a no. To having a +1. 

9:32/Roderich: It's a no to your request as well!! 

9:32/Gilbert: I'd make a great +1. Very mysterious. 

9:33/Roderich: What would people say! You're a nobody. 

9:34/Gilbert: That, probably. It'd be exciting. 

9:34/Roderich: I'm not a fan of excitement. 

9:35/Gilbert: Wouldn't it be more embarrassing to go alone? 

9:37/Roderich: Hardly. 

9:37/Roderich: I doubt you'd even have anything to wear. 

9:38/Gilbert: You're wrong. I know a guy. 

9:39/Roderich: You are bluffing. 

9:39/Gilbert: Call me on it. 

9:40/Roderich: I just did. You would embarrass yourself and, more importantly, me.

9:41/Gilbert: I meant by inviting me. I'll be the best +1 you could ask for, of any class. 

9:42/Roderich: I should block this number.

9:42/Roderich: Fine. 

9:43/Gilbert: Awesome. 

9:44/Roderich: One condition. 

9:44/Roderich: You come early to my home and only if you look decent do we proceed. 

9:45/Gilbert: Fine by me. Not bluffing. 

9:45/Roderich: Can your leg look... Normal? 

9:46/Gilbert: It can. 

9:47/Roderich: Good. 

9:47/Roderich: I'll send you the details. 

9:48/Gilbert: ;) 

(Read by Roderich at 9:48) 

\-----------

"Your brother, he does fashion stuff, right?" Gilbert was leaning against the counter, Feliciano wearing Ludwig's pink apron and whisking eggs and butter together. 

"Mmmhm! I didn't know you were interested in that kind of thing!" Feliciano's tone always conveyed a smile, even when he looked focused. 

"Er, I mean... Let's just say I need a special outfit. Could be do that? Make me something nice?" Gilbert would not call himself "interested in fashion," no. 

"Huh?" Felciano looked over at him, setting the bowl down. "Well, sure he could. But a _whole_ outfit? And _fancy_? You know he'd probably charge you for that! It might be expensive." 

Gilbert scoffed. "No friends and family discount?" 

A giggle. "Oh, Gil, you're not friends and family, tho!" 

Gilbert waggled his eyebrows. "Not _yet_." 

Feliciano held up a hand over his mouth to giggle, like a Hollywood starlet. "Oh, you." 

Behind him, Ludwig retrieved the bowl and moved it to the other counter, where he had the dry ingredients, shooting Gilbert a pointed _mind your business_ look. His blush, though, was evidence enough to Gilbert that he did not mean that. 

Feliciano casually looped an arm around Gilbert's waist, leaning in conspiratorially. "But that flattery won't get you anywhere with _him_. He doesn't like you two much anyway-- protective, you know. I'll do my best, but just also be ready for whatever you ask for to cost you." 

That was one of the things Gilbert loved about the little Italian. He was so quick to touch, and so casual about it. 

"Well, the government is paying me for having been blown up. I'm sure I'll manage. Just put us in touch, all right?" 

"Yessir!" Feliciano mock saluted. "I'll tell him right away!" 

_Ah, like being called sir a bit much, don't I?_

"Thanks, kid." 

\-----------

Lovino Vargas was usually not so easy to work with, so Gilbert was pleasantly surprised to find that he had a business side. For the right price, Lovino could almost be described as pleasant. 

By the end of the month, Gilbert had a custom suit, one designed to match his favorite souvenir from Feliciano, a hand-made mask from Venice. 

It was all blacks, reds, and golds. Gilbert had been told once by an old friend that he looked stunning in black and red, and he'd really never let the compliment go, although he'd deny recalling it at all to the said friend.

As for the design, he'd let Lovino have almost free reign, telling him "match this mask, make me look good." After which Lovino had made him swear up and down that he would not critique the outfit after giving his freedom. He was only allowed to compliment it. 

He didn't think it would be that difficult: he'd seen other work by Lovino, after all, and it was all very good. A lot of the dresses Feliciano wore were things that Lovino had gifted him. 

What Lovino revealed in the back of his little shop was certainly nice. It was multiple pieces: the pants were fitted, straight down the shape of the leg, red gilded roses rising up the sides, thorns visible. The waist was high, cinching where Gilbert was slimmest, and the shirt was a deep black, button-up, and matched with a red ascot printed over with a golden rose motif. Above that was a jacket that was shorter at the front, laced together in the back with crimson lace, and flowing down to the back of the knees in folds from the front, all the edges looking dipped in red. It looked like he'd have to find his own shoes (and they would be boots, he had said as much before it was even designed). 

"So," Lovino said. 

Gilbert didn't say anything a moment, and then he tempered his tone into what he considered to be a neutral to say, "I like it. It looks very well done." 

Lovino shot him a look, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "What?" 

"It's just a bit... Feminine, don't you think?" Gilbert really tried to keep himself from sounding like it was a critique, via his promise. 

"Hmmm." Lovino's eyes returned to the outfit. "Well. Gilbert. You are about 5'6 total, you are very slim, you have very pretty features, and you cannot grow facial hair as far as I can tell. So I wouldn't say it's _feminine_ , Gilbert. I would say it's tailored to _you_." 

_Hmm_.

Gilbert decided that Lovino had done a lot of work for him, that the outfit was very nice, and that maybe he didn't have to win every single fight. That, and he had gone out seeking "fashionable" clothes instead of his dress blues, so who was to blame, really? 

"...Thank you, Lovino," Gilbert replied. _It does at least look as dramatic as I promised Roderich it would be._ That and it matched the mask, which Lovino had placed beside it: a half face masquerade mask with an explosion of roses at the top left, trailing down to curl around the chin, the openings around the left eye and above the right gilded thorns. 

"That's what I thought," Lovino said. "You're welcome." 

_I can't wait to see the look on his face._


	2. The Masquerade Ball

The outfit came with gloves. Soft black gloves. Gilbert hadn't noticed them in the initial design but, slipping them on and flexing his fingers, he felt like the Victorian hero he'd been picturing when he first texted Roderich. 

_ All right. Time to blow away one absolute prick with my insanely good looks and completely prove him wrong about any doubts he'd ever had about me. _

All in a day's work, right? 

Gilbert had left the house with the intent to avoid Ludwig completely. He barely managed it, slipping out into the street as his younger brother came down the stairs. Although he'd explained he was going out to a ball, he didn't want Ludwig to  _ actually  _ see him in the ridiculous costume. Of course he probably wouldn't tease him, hardly ever teased him, but Gilbert liked to think he held a certain image in his brother's mind, and it definitely  _ wasn't _ that of a dandy. 

_ Early. _ Roderich had asked him to come back early, and he'd provided an address. 

Gilbert, of course, was always early: that request wasn't difficult. He would have been early no matter what the time he was given was. 

As for the address, well, Gilbert could probably have navigated back to the house by memory, he was so good with terrain. A part of his training in the military that he had had no problem with. 

Yes. He walked again. Walking was part of recovery, wasn't it,  _ getting used to things, _ he told himself.  _ This is fine. _

Still planning a grand entrance in his head, Gilbert had turned the corner and immediately faltered. He hardly recognized the man in front of him, the man tapping a boot, checking his golden pocket watch held by a delicate chain. All of his personal pride vanished in the face of Roderich's deep purple, velvet coat, almost down to his ankles, cinched just above his hips, over a vest of soft gold. He looked the part of royalty, didn't he? He looked the part of a prince...

"You are just on time," Roderich said, his voice crisp, straightening up from where he'd been waiting outside of his property, leaning against the gate that Gilbert had pushed through around 3 am, the last time that he saw Roderich. 

"Hmmm." Roderich took three very precise steps forward, his little heels clicking against the stone of the street, and leaned in to inspect Gilbert's outfit. "I admit this  _ is _ better than what I thought  _ you _ could come up with. But I thought you could make your foot look more present. More  _ normal _ ." 

Gilbert stiffened. This close, Roderich smelled like perfume, like some bouquet of flowers he couldn't place underlaid with spice. He  _ smelled _ fancy... And his hair was done, out of his face and his eyes, done up so that it was fluffy and curled gently at the ends. Gilbert was seized, looking at it, with the sudden and immense desire to wrap his fingers in it.  _ To pull it-- _

"I said I  _ could _ didn't say I would. It's part of my charm now. I'm signalling backstory." 

Roderich scoffed; he circled him, like a shark, his dark eyes narrowed behind glasses.  _ Oh, he hadn't been wearing glasses before, had he? They make his face look, uh, sharper... _

"Did you have this handmade?" Roderich demanded, coming back around in front of him, his arms behind his back in a way that-- ironically-- reminded Gilbert so much of the military. 

"I told you," Gilbert forced his signature devilish grin, in place of a blush, "I know people." 

He  _ did _ feel good about the annoyance in Roderich's stance, once he got past the other man's elegant appearance. About the way his mouth twitched downwards, his nose wrinkled but couldn't manage real disgust. 

"But did you bring a mask?" Roderich's eyes sparked like flint, as if he'd found some gap in Gilbert's preparedness, as if it would be that easy to call his bluff. As if Gilbert would ever miss a detail. 

"Here." Gilbert took his out and set it over his face. "It matches." 

Roderich sniffed. "... Yes. I can see. You look--" 

"Good. Is it going to kill you to say good?" Gilbert knew he could look intimidating. He knew the effect his red eyes had on people, lowering his brow a bit, his grin wicked.  _ I could make you admit I look good _ .

Roderich regarded him through his glasses, unaffected, lifting his chin with impenetrable arrogance. "Acceptable. I was going to say." 

"Either way." Gilbert offered his arm, as if to say  _ I win, accept that. _

Roderich made a sound of disgust, muttered under his breath something like  _ oh, this was a mistake _ , but still took the offered arm. 

"I should have told you my color scheme," Gilbert told him with a cheeky little smile. 

"Don't you dare get cocky. You are lucky I gave into your silly little game, and no amount of effort, no matter how impressive, is a real replacement for the class you're missing." Roderich took them around the alley and to the street at the front of his property, where there was a waiting car, all black. 

_ BMW _ , Gilbert noted with some satisfaction on his brother's account. 

"What makes class, then, Roderich?" Gilbert asked, helping the other man into the backseat of the car. 

"It-- well, economically speaking it is an issue of money." Roderich crossed his legs. 

Gilbert raised his eyebrows, a little startled by his blunt assertion. "Yeah? At least you're honest about  _ that _ !" 

"Why wouldn't I be? Anything else and it would be obtainable to you, and I would have been lying in my earlier statement. It isn't as if being poor or rich is a matter of personality, I don't that argument would remotely hold up at the event we're attending if you chose to speak to anyone." 

Gilbert laughed, a kind of breathy, caught-off-guard laugh. "So if I somehow became rich, that makes us the same?" 

"Do you know how rigid classes really are, Gilbert?" Roderich pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, folded his hands on his lap. "Besides. I should have added ancestry, as the nouveau riche are hardly... Welcome." 

"So it's baseless, really." Gilbert leaned back in his seat, relaxing in a way that was the polar opposite of his companion. 

Roderich waved a hand. "Power must be. You should know that, you were a soldier. Did you follow orders because the military is a  _ meritocracy _ or because that is what you needed to do for the people who already held the power." 

_ That strikes more of a nerve than I anticipated it would. _ And it set Gilbert's mouth in a hard line. "I could have climbed the ranks." 

"Could have." Roderich shrugged. "But you didn't, did you? You were instead sent out, used up, and tossed away again while someone with a father who works in government so far above your head you don't even know his name took notes on how much you'd just cost your country in medical expenses." 

It was strange, hearing those words spoken so calmly aloud, as if they hadn't been lurking at the back of Gilbert's mind for months now. And where he expected them to ignite the kind of anger in his heart he'd had when he first put on his uniform, they just made him feel numb. 

Roderich was still talking, "for what, even? I can't recall the things Germany is doing abroad. It must have been Afghanistan, yes?" 

"Resolute support mission," Gilbert replied on auto-pilot. "A NATO led initiative. In Afghanistan. Yes." 

"That is what I thought. But I mostly read about these things for dinner conversation..." 

"Right." Gilbert crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling stupid in the outfit he'd had so painstakingly made. "You don't care, do you?" 

Roderich looked a little surprised. "Why should I?" 

"That people are dying. That people actually give their lives to something. You're too busy sitting in a bubble of privilege and wealth, using lives for  _ dinner conversation _ ." He didn't mean to sound so angry. He didn't mean for the words to come across through gritted teeth. 

_ My life... _

"I--" Roderich's eyebrows had drawn together. "Well it may be true that I have spent my life in a "bubble of wealth and privilege" as you put it, I have in fact dedicated it also to music. And I doubt I am very far from the only man in Germany using political points are topics for conversation." 

"Music." Gilbert repeated with disdain.  _ I should have figured he'd say something as pointless as that.  _ "Right." 

Roderich studied him for a long moment, the silence tense between them. 

"Gilbert, quite frankly, I'm confused." Roderich finally said. "You seem so hostile despite having invited yourself. I never asked you to try and impress me, you simply decided you would." 

"I'm don't need to prove  _ anything _ to you." That, he said out of habit. That was the response he never gave any thought to before saying it. 

"That's just the thing. You don't. And yet here you are, trying to." Roderich turned to look out the window, the lights of the city reflecting in his glasses so that Gilbert couldn't make out his eyes at all. "And it's funny, really. Because this certainly isn't the reaction I inspire in most people or, really, in anyone. So what is it about you? It must be you. Do I remind you of someone else?" 

Gilbert forced himself to take a deep breath, to bring the tension in his body down to a reasonable level.  _ I don't know him, and he doesn't know me. I'm overthinking this. It's not personal. I'm having fun. _

"It was your music." That was an honest answer. The discordant music that played now in his dreams, tethering him to reality just faintly so that he hadn't quite been able to wake up in a cold sweat since hearing it.

Roderich's attention was immediately back on him, his dark eyes again blazing their feverish light. "You. Yes. I believe  _ you _ . Anyone else would be saying it out of flattery, but you-- it  _ touched _ you, didn't it? You could say it  _ resonated _ with your soul? Would you say such a thing?" 

A glimpse of the blazing person hiding under the visage of the calm prince put Gilbert more at ease than anything else had that evening. "I might. Is that the real reason you let me tag along? And not because you needed eye candy?" 

Roderich had seized his arm, but, now, again, withdrew to his side of the backseat. "No, of course I don't-- I think I'm quite enough "eye candy" myself, in any case-- besides, I take you to an event, and then, in return, I believe you owe me a show." 

"Then you can be  _ my _ eye candy for the ni-- what do you mean a show? You want me to perform for you?" Gilbert wasn't even sure what perform-able talents he had. He didn't think Roderich would want to accompany him to the firing range.

"No! No, of course not, you're being ridiculous. A show that you  _ listen _ to.  _ I _ will be playing." 

The idea of the outing being a sort of a deal made Gilbert more comfortable.  _ Wouldn't want to owe anyone for anything... _

"That's fine by me." 

"Excellent." 

\-------------

The venue was like something out of the historical period dramas Gilbert only watched at night when he knew Ludwig couldn't hear them. He paused a moment to look up at the painted ceiling, almost stumbling as Roderich kept going, pulling him along. 

"I generally," Roderich had donned this mask that did nothing to cover his face, consisting only of golden music notes, "stand around at these sorts of events and listen to the pianist." 

Roderich motioned a server over and took two flutes of champagne, passing one to Gilbert. 

"And," he added after a sip, "judge them." 

Gilbert had been about to take a sip for himself when Roderich made him laugh, lowing the glass. "The whole time, huh?" 

"Well, other people make conversation with me from time to time." And Roderich's eyes swept the event, the dancers spinning about, as if such a thing might be about to pounce. 

"How dreadful for you." Gilbert commented.  _ This is good champagne, damn... Can't get used to this fancy shit on my budget, though. _ "I'm sure you'd rather be making out with your piano." 

One of Roderich's clearly plucked eyebrows lifted, his eyes travelling the short distance to find Gilbert without his head having turned. "Despite your crude addition, I would rather be practicing, yes. But..." Roderich rested an arm behind his back. "... One must find the time to socialize if one is to be recognized by one's peers. It's a matter of making connections, all this song and dance. Otherwise, I would never leave my house." 

"You know, other than being rich," Gilbert threw an arm around him, "you're kind of pathetic!" 

"What? I am not--" 

"You're lucky I'm here with you to spice up your night and can't believe you planned to spend three hours nodding at people and standing here grimacing!" Gilbert downed the rest of his champagne before setting the empty flute on another passing tray. 

"I don't need you to do that!" Roderich tensed up, his nose wrinkling. 

Gilbert just laughed. "You have to dance! That's the whole point!" 

"Ack." Roderich turned his head away the moment Gilbert pulled him in closer. "It seems  _ you _ want to dance. *I* have no such interest. You're welcome to." 

"But I'm--" Gilbert mocked his voice "*your* plus one. What would people think?" 

"That only means I agreed to bring you here! Nothing else!" Roderich's shoulders slumped under Gilbert's arm. "And people are likely already thinking a great deal more than I would like them to..." 

"So what could it hurt!" Gilbert plucked Roderich's champagne from his hand downed that one as well. "Come on!" 

He looped their arms together, pulling Roderich with him, almost stumbling over his new foot, hopping for a second on his boot, before they were out on the ballroom floor with the others. Roderich did not dig his heels in the way that Gilbert would have, instead heaving a deep, deep sigh behind him. 

"Do you even know  _ how _ to dance?" Roderich demanded. 

"Sort of. I mean," Gilbert glanced around at the other dancers spinning all around them to the music; the woosh of skirts and the click of heels, "I'm a fast learner." 

"Your unbelievable is what you are. Here. I will lead." Roderich took a stiff position, offering his hand and hold the other out to clasp it at Gilbert's waist. 

If Gilbert were honest with himself, he might have to address the stubborn pride that had him hesitate before he allowed himself the position of follower. The hand over the laces across his lower back felt firm, almost aggressive.  _ That would be ridiculous though, Roderich doesn't have it in him to-- _

"No. You step  _ with _ me, see--" Roderich was already guiding him, already moving him with that hand against his back. "You follow my-- yes, good. Good. Maybe you are quick." 

Gilbert glanced up from their feet. "You should know, even from this much I'm  _ never _ bluffi--" 

"Gilbert! You took the time to be cocky, and you messed up a step. Focus." Roderich's tone was sharp, his adjustments quick, merciless. 

"Mmmph."  _ What do you think I did in the military? I'll show you... It's just dancing-- dancing isn't difficult _ .

For the rest of the song Gilbert was quiet, his eyebrows drawn together, following Roderich's steps until it became a habit, and he could look back up to truimphantly meet those dark eyes. They were not impressed.  _ They should be. _

"Quite proud of yourself, are you?" Roderich commented. 

Gilbert nodded, too concerned with messing up to speak again.  _ Why shouldn't I be? _ Roderich's expression shifted slightly in the direction of amusement. 

"And this is such a simple dance." 

"I see dances don't lighten your mood at all," Gilbert muttered, at that moment accidentally kicking the front of Roderich's boot as it came up with the bottom of his new foot. He stumbled slightly, sucking in a breath through his teeth.

Now, something sparked in those dark eyes: concern. "Gilbert--" 

Roderich caught him before he could step back down on the prosthetic, moving in closer, hand now on his side so that his entire forearm avoid support his weight, the other joining it to wrap around Gilbert. They were, in that one moment, pressed together. Now, Gilbert's heart was not the only one beating against his ribcage. 

"I'm fine!" Gilbert insisted, even from that position: even with one foot up and off the ground, practically being dipped by this near stranger in the midst of other dancers. "You're overreacting!" 

Roderich didn't seem to consider the words at all, instead his eyebrows drew together tightly. "It's your leg, isn't it? You said-- how recent was this injury?" 

Gilbert scoffed, Roderich gently drawing him back up into a standing position. 

"It's been... Months," Gilbert answered, dodging the question entirely. 

"How many?" Roderich has stood him upright, allowing him to return weight to the prosthetic, but hadn't withdrawn past a half an arm's length. 

"Enough!" Gilbert moved to step back but Roderich's grip tightened on the fabric. 

"You mustn't strain yourself!" Roderich was saying. "What does that prove!" 

"It isn't to pro--" 

"Well," a voice cut in, "this really isn't like you, is it, Roderich?" 

Roderich's eyes widened behind his glasses, and he pulled back from Gilbert as if he'd been caught at something. "Elizabeta!" He exclaimed. "You did come!" 

_ Who the fuck _ ? Gilbert turned to see a woman in green velvet. She was tall, this woman, easily taller than Gilbert, and her heels weren't helping assuage  _ that _ particular insecurity of his. Above her mask-- with appearance of aged bronze-- her brown hair was pinned up with flowers, two curls falling loose over her shoulders. 

"Yeah. Of course I did. I like to dress up. You brought a plus one! Like I said, it's not like you." She cocked her head, looking Gilbert up and down, though he couldn't quite make out the feeling in her eyes through the shadows of her mask. "Who is he?" 

"I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt," Gilbert answered for himself, his tone verging on irritation.  _ Be nicer to her, she's a lady. _

"Nice to meet you Gilbert Beilschmidt! How did you get through to this completely ridiculous man?" There was laughter in her voice. 

_ Wait. Maybe I was too quick to judge _ . "I complimented his piano playing." 

"Mmm. That  _ will _ do it!" She rested a hand on her hip. "You boys are certainly interrupting the dancing, do you know that?" 

Both of them looked around, and found themselves, in fact, still on the ballroom floor, couples moving around them. 

"We  _ were _ dancing!  _ You _ came and... Started talking." Roderich sighed. "But you are right."

This time he took Gilbert's arm, just a hand at his elbow, guiding him off the floor and to a table where they could all be sat in peace. Gilbert, aware of the presence of a lady, pulled her seat out for her, only to turn and find that Roderich had done the same for him.  _ What the-- _

"Hey! I don't need you to help me with  _ that _ !" 

Sitting down himself, Roderich only raised his eyebrows. "I thought it would help, what with your leg troubling you. Besides. You did it for her." 

"Yes! Because  _ she's _ a lady!"  _ How is this not obvious?!  _

"Are you insulted by being treated the way you would treat a lady?" Elizabeta asked, but with that tone it felt like a trap, and Gilbert just sat down.

"No." He relented.  _ The chair being moved does help _ he thought.  _ But I don't need help. I don't need anyone's help, not with anything. _

"And did you bring  _ him _ as your plus one yet again?" Roderich resumed conversation in a tone that suggested years of putting up with someone he was less than fond of. 

But Gilbert had known Roderich all of two nights (generously), and he wasn't about to judge anyone based on that. 

"I did, he's so fun at parties. You could learn a thing or two." She leaned her head on a fist, elbow resting on the table, and Gilbert was a bit blindsided by how damn  _ nice _ her arms were. 

"I do not intend to," Roderich gave his classic sniff, but its effect was dulled by the background sounds. "A family name is the only thing that man has to his, well, name." 

"You're leaving out his great body--" 

"Ugh." 

"-- his charming personality, and his being an Olympic fencer." 

_ An Olympic level fencer?!  _

Roderich crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "As I said." 

Elizabeta laughed. "I don't see why you two  _ don't _ get along! You're both completely insufferable." 

"In wholly different ways: it would never work." 

Another server brought them a tray of tiny, fancy cakes, and Gilbert took the opportunity while the two argued about some guy he felt he had no stake in either way.  _ Is this real gold...? _ He found he still preferred his brother's cakes, if only for the home-made taste. 

The conversation at hand was interrupted by a tall man with messy hair, stubble, and bright eyes. He rested an arm on the back of Elizabeta's chair, easily leaning there, as if he owned the place, no mask in sight. 

"Ah! You found your friend! Nice to meet you again, Roderich, old friend!" 

Roderich sighed deeply, as if pained to have to be in this person's presence. "Good evening, Romulus." 

_ Romulus? Maybe he's a foreigner... _

"Mind if I-- well, now, hello, who is this?" Romulus was now looking at Gilbert, who reached out a hand to shake. 

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," he repeated. This time, because this guy looked cool, adding, "ex-soldier." 

Romulus has a strong handshake, which only reinforced Gilbert's positive feeling about him. 

"I'm glad to see someone getting through to our stiff friend here!" And Romulus clasped Roderich's shoulder. 

_ If the look in those dark eyes could kill… _ Gilbert's attention slipped from Romulus completely. 

"Yes, me too," Elizabeta agreed with a smile, holding out a hand for Romulus to help her to her feet, letting go of Roderich. 

"We wouldn't want to keep you!" Romulus spun her around. 

"We wouldn't want to keep ourselves!" She laughed, pulling him out and into the crowd of dancers. 

Roderich let out a breath that Gilbert hadn't realized he was holding. 

"So who were they, to you?" Gilbert asked. 

Roderich dismissively waved a hand. "Elizabeta Héderváry. An old friend. And..." He adjusted his glasses for no real reason. "... My betrothed." 

"You'r--" Gilbert sat upright. "You're engaged?!" He demanded. 

"Oh, it isn't-- calm down-- it isn't all that. It's an informal betrothal. We are hardly  _ engaged _ ." And Roderich said this as if being surprised was a ridiculous thing. 

"What sort of rich people nonsense-- "informally betrothed?!" Like what you're t _ hinking _ about it?" 

"I-- sort of. Since we were friends when we were younger, it is something that our families thought might be for the best. It is a sort of contingency plan and, besides, I don't see what  _ you're _ being dramatic about! You're... You hardly have a chance as far as jealousy goes." 

Gilbert's eyes narrowed, his face flushing slightly  _ from indignation I'm sure, _ and he drew back an inch or two. "I'm  _ not _ jealous!  _ You _ should be jealous, that guy was way cooler than you!" 

"Oh, you would think so." Roderich sighed. Seemed like a favorite pastime of his. 

"I have good taste!" Gilbert protested. He looked around the room. "That's really all this is, huh? Sitting... Dancing... Talking..."

"And listening. Yes. I told you: it isn't all that exciting." 

"Mmmm... Unless we dance all night, that seems like the most entertaining option." Gilbert offered his hand. 

Roderich gave it a long suffering look. "Not if your leg is already hurting you." 

"It isn't!" Gilbert insisted.  _ I should be better at this point. I should be doing better than this. Faster. _

"Who are you lying to Gilbert, and why? I think you know as well as I do that following doctor's orders is better for healing-- that's just pragmatic. What does being obtuse like this do for you?" 

"It..."  _ I bet you would lie in bed all day long, might even enjoy it; you don't understand. _ "... keeps me from getting bored." 

"Mmm. I am afraid we will have to be bored together." 

"I refuse. I'm far too interesting to resign myself, and you-- you're welcome, by the way-- to boredom. Nothing is  _ ever _ boring if you put your mind to it." Gilbert was not one to be left hanging, and he seized Roderich's hand, the one resting on his thigh. 

Roderich regarded his captured hand with slight concern. "Sounds to me like the sort of thing a troublemaker would say." 

Inside of his hand, Roderich's hand twitched, the slender fingers moving as if to curl into a fist before relaxing. Gilbert could feel each tendon, each muscle as tense and then go limp. 

He licked his lips. "Let's go and lie to other rich people?" 

"Lie?" Roderich arched an eyebrow. "To say what? I'm not exactly a convincing liar." 

"No, no, you don't lie.  _ I'll _ be the one lying. Remember how I talked about being all mysterious and shit?" Gilbert was grinning, leaning in as if about to close a deal, hand in hand already. 

"More or less..." Roderich's mouth twitched up. "Talking less to the people I don't like. You know, that really is the most appealing thing you've said." 

" _ And _ fucking with them." 

"I wouldn't--" But Roderich was already smirking  _ despite himself, I hope _ . "Alright. I can't feign enough concern about my reputation to not find the idea at least a little satisfying." 

"Great!" Gilbert pulled them both to their feet, hands clasped together between them. "Then let's go." 


	3. Do You Even Like Coffee?

8:58/Gilbert: Now it's my turn. 

9:00/Roderich: Are you capable of starting a conversation in a helpful way? 

9:01/Gilbert: To choose the next thing we do. 

9:01/Roderich: No. You already agreed to listen to a performance. 

9:02/Gilbert: Right. Before that. 

9:03/Roderich: Before that? 

9:03/Gilbert: Yeah. 

9:03/Gilbert: Learn to read. 

9:04/Gilbert: I was thinking we could get coffee. 

9:05/Roderich: Are you employing on me, to flirt, the same strategy you would for networking with clients? 

9:07/Gilbert: Why would you write that

9:07/Gilbert: That's a weird thing to say. 

9:07/Gilbert: No? 

9:08/Roderich: You were a soldier, I guess you didn't network. 

9:09/Gilbert: Stop avoiding saying yes. 

9:10/Roderich: Just coffee? 

9:11/Gilbert: Unless it leaves you wanting more ;) 

9:20/Roderich: Fine. 

9:21/Gilbert: Hell yeah. 

(Read by Roderich 9:21) 

\-------------

They met outside of a cafe closer to Roderich's house, both of them dressed somewhere between either of the past extremes they'd seen. Gilbert was wearing a black v-neck and jeans, paired-- as usual-- with sunglasses, while Roderich was dressed in a button down, neatly tucked into a pair of slacks. He was also wearing a plaid scarf which was... A little hot for Gilbert's taste at the end of the summer, but it did make Roderich look fancier.  _ Speaking of— _

Gilbert was a little surprised that Roderich still put so much effort into making his hair so fluffy when there was nothing going on. And he was wearing glasses again.  _ Why did he only wear contacts in the dead of night? Maybe it's a music thing... _

"Are you done staring? Can we go in?" Roderich asked, an eyebrow raised over his dark eyes. 

"Uh, yeah." Gilbert opened the door for him. "But," he added as Roderich entered, "if you didn't want me staring more you should have let me go first." 

Roderich only sighed at the comment clearly referring his ass as if having heard it pained him on an emotional level. 

"Oh, Gilbert," he said. "It's a wonder I came." 

"Admit it: you can't resist this." Gilbert took his place in line behind Roderich. 

"It must be something like that." Roderich stuck his hands in his pockets, looking both entirely uncomfortable in the space while completely at ease. Like someone had cut a figure out of a renaissance oil painting and stuck it on a promotional photograph. 

"Glad to hear you admit it!" Gilbert had never been to this place before, so he took a few minutes to study the menu. Not that there was a point to this. 

_ I can't get what I normally get in front of a date, he'll think I'm pathetic, can't even drink coffee. _ And even though that was true, and Gilbert really didn't much like the taste of coffee as much as he liked the sweet and spicy flavors that made up drinks like lattes and mochas, he  _ knew _ that was a personal failing. Sure, he would have preferred something with caramel, but he also didn't want Roderich thinking he was a sissy. Besides, he'd choked down worse in the army, and he could stomach— 

"I would like..." Roderich was ordering, and he hadn't bothered to so much as glance at the menu. "...a melange with five shots of espresso." 

Gilbert gave him an almost comical double-take. _ Five shots of— _ Had he heard that right?? 

He had. That was his actual order.  _ Now I definitely can't order a fancy drink! Damnit. _

"And you, sir?" 

"Uh," Gilbert forced himself to look smug, the way that people who were confident in ordering cool orders looked. "Yeah. Just coffee. Black." 

"Right away." 

"Do you like coffee?" Roderich asked as they moved to the side. 

Gilbert nodded once  _ it's working!! _ but he couldn't have a cultured conversation about coffee just yet because— 

"Do you, you know,  _ sleep _ ?" He demanded. 

Roderich's eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Why do you ask that?" 

"Why do-- your order?? That's ridiculous!" 

"Mmm." Roderich studied his manicured nails. "Is it?" 

"Yes! Is that what you get  _ every _ time?"  _ Well, _ Gilbert figured,  _ I did first meet him at 3 am, didn't I? _

"Not exactly that." 

Before Gilbert could hassle him any further about sleeping, their drinks were placed out on the counter in large cups on saucers. They found a table for two in the corner, just past the last window. Soft music played over the speakers, something classical as far as Gilbert could tell. 

Roderich took a drink and didn't so much as flinch. "Mmm..." 

_ Yeah right. _ Gilbert looked down at his own black coffee. Took half a sip.  _ Yup. Still bitter as fuck. Great. _

"Is this a good blend?" Roderich asked. 

_ Probably. _ "You know, I sleep six hours a night." Gilbert leaned over the table a bit. 

Roderich waved a hand. "I don't need you worrying about me: pretending you're in this for more than your own lust." 

"Ha!" Gilbert grinned. "My own lust. That's great. You're hilarious. I'm not that kinda guy." 

Roderich raised his eyebrows. 

"I mean, it's not the  _ only _ reason," Gilbert said, "and, look, anyone would be concerned having heard your order. Sleep is really important. Do you even have a job? What do you need to stay up all night for?" 

Roderich got this gleam in his eye that Gilbert recognized so that when he said, "my art," Gilbert said, "music?" 

Roderich blinked. "Yes. Music." 

"You need 24 hours?" 

"I need," he sniffed in a way that communicated  _ you wouldn't understand _ "to be allowed to commit to a flow of ideas. No matter what it demands." 

"Mmmhmmm." Gilbert forced himself to take another few sips of coffee.  _ Ugh. _ "A lack of sleep can be used to deprogram new recruits." 

"Well. You would know, I suppose. But this is on my terms." Roderich seemed to genuinely like the thing he'd ordered which was... Something. 

"You should take care of yourself." 

Roderich's eyes flicked down, towards the prosthetic that Gilbert was wearing. "Should I? Do you think so?" 

_ Why does that feel like a dangerous question? _ He wasn't one to shy away from danger. "Yeah. I do." 

"Okay, Gilbert." Roderich met his eyes. "I'll remember that. Self-care: it's important to you." 

_ What is he getting at? _ "Yeah. It is." 

A delicate sip. A delicate nod. "Noted." 

_ He says that like it's a threat. _ Gilbert's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't find anything threatening about the other man's relaxed posture and crossed ankles. If he was threatening, Roderich showed no sign of it. 

Gilbert forced down yet another sip. 

"Gilbert," Roderich said pointedly, "do you actually like coffee?" 

He almost choked. "Wha—  _ yes _ ?! Why would you even— what makes you think that?" 

"You have hardly touched your coffee, and when you do, your nose crinkles up slightly, and your eyebrows— which I can hardly make out in this light— draw together." 

Gilbert sputtered. Roderich titled his head. 

"Oh, I apologize. Did you mean to be a closed book? You're not hard to read." 

"Pppfffttttt." Gilbert leaned back, throwing an arm around his chair like he owned the place. "Why!" He began, louder than he meant. "Would I possibly order something I didn't like and then force myself to drink it that behavior would be completely crazy!" 

"Mmmmm." 

Roderich regarded him over the tops of his glasses for a minute. And then he clicked his tongue. 

"Well," he said, reaching across the table, "I won't make any comment beyond saying that I will be taking this, and I would like you to buy something you actually enjoy." 

"But--" 

Roderich held up a credit card. "I will pay for it." 

_ That's even worse! _ "I don't need—” 

" _ Go. _ " Roderich insisted, holding the card out across the table. 

"I don't think you should drink both the coffee and the—” 

"This is not about me, you're dodging the point." Roderich, when Gilbert didn't take it, flicked the card over the table to that he was forced— because of his amazing instincts— to catch it. 

"Only because you insist, and I want you want to have fun." 

Roderich positioned Gilbert's coffee beside his melange. "Thank you, Gilbert, I appreciate that." 

A bit reluctantly, Gilbert took the card and returned to the line.  _ Great, now I look like an idiot. _ This time around he ordered what he'd avoided ordering in the first place, a caramel latte.  _ At least Roderich can't hear from here. _ He did pull short of getting whipped cream. Although, the two little hearts that he did receive instead might have been worse. 

"Better?" Roderich asked when he returned. And Gilbert couldn't quite tell if there was any more condescension than normal. 

"Whatever. What were we talking about?" 

"You wanted me to identify the music playing."

_ I don't think I asked that. _ "Alright. Hit me." 

Roderich smiled. "Well..." 

\----------

10:15/Roderich: Reminder. 

10:15/Gilbert: I don't need a reminder, Rod. I keep a schedule. 

10:16/Roderich: I have noticed you tend to be punctual. 

10:17/Gilbert: Damn straight. 

10:17/Gilbert: But I'll ask again...

10:17/Gilbert: ...does it have to be so late? 

10:18/Roderich: Yes. 

10:18/Roderich: I don't want to be interrupted. 

10:19/Gilbert: Don't want me to meet your family you mean. 

10:20/Roderich: I don't want *either* of us to meet my family. 

10:21/Gilbert: Fair enough. 

10:21/Gilbert: You could meet mine. 

10:22/Roderich: Another date? Already? 

10:22/Roderich: Quite the romantic. 

10:35/Gilbert: I'll see you tonight. 

10:36/Roderich: Early, I'm sure. 

(Read by Gilbert 10:36) 

\------------- 

Back at Roderich's house, this time wearing a black deutschland hoodie, camouflage pants, and— after much hesitation (and consideration about only seeing one person tonight and no one else)-- a black choker. He was early, of course. This time by five minutes. He stood by the gate, running some one-liners over in his head before he saw Roderich, who was exactly on time. 

"You're not wearing your glasses," Gilbert commented as he came down the stairs to open the gate that Gilbert had let himself through that first night.  _ So much for the one-liners. _

Roderich blinked a few times, unlocking the gate, pulling it open. "What?" 

He raised a hand to his face as Gilbert entered, and frowned, looking extremely displeased. "Ah. I must have forgotten to put them back on." 

"They're reading glasses?"  _ So he's not wearing contacts. _

"They're— yes. Precisely." Roderich followed Gilbert back up the stairs and across the lawn to the place they'd first seem each other, to that grand piano by the open doors, light pouring out

of the house and bathing them in a warm glow. 

"And you," Roderich, behind him, reached out, "are wearing a collar?" 

Gilbert felt a finger hook under his choker, stopping him short, so that he couldn't move into the house without his air being cut off. As soon as Roderich's nail scraped across the back of his neck, all the hair on his body jumped on end.  _ Wait, fuck— _

Gilbert had frozen, and he stuttered a minute before he could defend himself with: "It is  _ not _ a collar!" 

_ I shouldn't have worn it. "You'll look cute!" Fuck you, Francis. _

"Oh?" Roderich then did the thing that Gilbert considered to be the worst next step he could have possibly taken. He used his leverage to pull. Gilbert felt the strip of cloth cut of his air, slowly, before he took the half step back to hit Roderich. Heat flushed across his body, starting in the pit of his stomach and moving out and across every nerve. 

_ Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. _ Gilbert didn't panic. That's not remotely what he did. He wouldn't have used the word  _ panic _ . 

"Hey! Cut that out!! It's a gift!" Gilbert flailed for a moment trying to find Roderich's hand before he could smack it away. "You'll break it!" 

Gilbert spun around, stumbling slightly, before he could face off with Roderich, who was nursing his slapped hand. 

"Mmmm." Roderich's eyes narrowed. "That was rude! You slapped me." He sighed, regarding his hand. "Next time wear a sturdier collar, would you? If it's that easy to break." 

There could not have been anything he said that could have caused a more dramatic reaction. Gilbert leaped back a bit like a startled cat, gasping. "It's  _ not _ a collar! It's a  _ choker _ ! It's a type of  _ necklace _ !" 

Internally he cursed Francis in several languages. 

"What's the difference, really?" Roderich breezed past Gilbert, unaffected by his fighting stance, to the piano in the room. 

"There's a huge difference!!" Gilbert keenly regretted his choices at this point.  _ A great start to the night _ . "It's not my fault you're an idiot!" 

"I'm not— you can sit down here— I am not an idiot." 

Gilbert went and sat down on the ornate armchair Roderich had pulled up closer to the piano. "You can't tell the difference between a necklace and choker! Don't argue with me: you're an idiot." 

"Are you always going to be this rude when I manage to make  _ you _ blush?" Roderich sat down on the piano bench. 

Gilbert scoffed. "No." He considered adding  _ you didn't _ but that seemed far too defensive. And he was too pale for denying it. 

"Good. Work on that." Roderich adjusted several handwritten pages of music. "I am going to start, tonight, with a movement I wrote about the concept of... suffering." 

"Oh, uh, wow. That's— really?" 

"Yes, really, Gilbert. Don't question my art." 

Gilbert draped an arm over the back of his chair, kicking his prosthetic leg up onto his flesh and blood leg. "I mean, how much could a guy like you possibly know about suffering?" 

"Evidently something: it drew you towards me that first night, didn't it?" 

_ Music played badly on purpose. _ Music that had brought him back like a slap of cold water. 

"That's what you're playing tonight?" 

Roderich poised his hands above the ivory keys. "The finished version. Yes." 

"Great." Sure it had been interesting that first time, but Gilbert wasn't sure he wanted to listen to an entire song composed of just that type of music. Still. A deal was a deal. He wouldn't complain. 

Roderich gave the moment it's due; he nodded to himself once the silence settled. Then his fingers descended upon the instrument. 

He was right. It was not  _ exactly _ the same some. This version was polished, and it was smooth, and it felt a hell of a lot more like actual music. And, yet, still: it centered him. He felt it in the marrow of his bones.

Gilbert hadn't told anyone anything about the kind of pain he went through— because he was not someone who felt things like pain— but here it was spread out before him, a reflection of all that had remained unsaid. The notes infiltrated the layers of sock material, the padding, the silicone, all the way down to the still-inflamed skin. They found the scars scattered around his hips, up his side, all the way to his shoulder. 

Gilbert leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sinking a moment before the next sound lifted him again, spun him around. What mattered wasn't that he  _ felt _ every burn, that he  _ felt _ every long night. It wasn't that he hadn't  _ lived _ through it and  _ felt _ every moment of it: 

He wouldn't have named it suffering. It was just life. It wasn't special. He wasn't  _ special _ for feeling pain— he just  _ dealt _ with it. He wouldn't have decorated it like this. He  _ didn't _ decorate it like this. 

In the haze of the music, the figure of Roderich manifested in his thoughts, he peered over the rims of his glasses and his dark eyes burned. 

_ Did you think you were alone? _

Gilbert's eyebrows drew together. _ Inconsequential. What matters about pain is overcoming it. And the better you overcome the less anyone realizes you ever felt it.  _

His heart picked up with the pace of the music.  _ I'm fine. I will be fine. _

The figure of Roderich vanished into the corners of his mind. All of the moments he grit his teeth, dried his tears. Every instance he'd met derision with a grin, bit the inside of cheek and tasted blood before he tasted bitterness. 

_ I don't need you— _

The music came to a halt. Gilbert's eyes opened. Roderich was looking rather grim, but nonetheless satisfied with himself. 

"Of course," Roderich said, "that's only one movement." 

Gilbert drew in a careful breath through his nose, straightening up in his chair. 

Roderich met his eyes, his eyebrows raised with expectation. "So. How did you like that? Detailed reactions, if you will. I don't know that you're familiar with musical terms."

"I played the flute for years." The things that didn't matter were always so easy to say. 

"Mmm. Well, I admit that's a surprise." Roderich shifted on his bench, kicking up a leg so that his ankle rested on his knee. "And later I might ask you to play it for me, out of curiosity. But now, the issue at hand, what did you think?" 

_ I'm not used to music sounding like that. It wasn't even good, really. It didn't even sound good. It sounded... _ "It was interesting." 

"That's it?" Roderich clicked his tongue. "I'm going to need more than that." 

"Discordant? It didn't sound like music. More like music than the last version I heard, but..." Gilbert shrugged. A tight and quick movement like dodging a punch. "Why?" 

Roderich's eyes lit up. "Why? A good question! To evoke, Gilbert! To  _ evoke _ ! It is to make you  _ feel _ ; what did you  _ feel _ ?" 

Gilbert has been at this intersection before: there was an honest answer to the question, one that left him vulnerable to further inquiry which could unravel something inside of himself that he kept tightly,  _ tightly _ bound; there was also a more careful answer to the question, but one that meant slamming a door in Roderich's face. 

"I..." 

But it wasn't as though he didn't have any friends. Far from it. He had always been this way, and he still managed to maintain connections.  _ Francis, Antonio, Ludwig... _ So it wasn't the end of something to protect himself: it wasn't a loss. It might still be a pyrrhic victory.  _ They both might _ — 

"I see." Roderich said. Gilbert blinked.  _ What is that supposed to mean? I haven't said anything yet! _ "You're reluctant to explain, and that must mean it has touched you in some way that's significant." 

Roderich sighed, resting his cheek on a hand. "But that isn't very helpful to  _ me _ as feedback. I was hoping for something more inspiring than an awe-struck silence." 

"Not awe-struck." Gilbert was decidedly uncomfortable with being called out like this. "Not a silence. I said it was interesting. I hadn't answered your question on feelings yet:  _ you _ interrupted me. Give me a minute." 

_ Great. Now my defensiveness makes it seem like he was right... _

Gilbert forced himself to relax. "It was accurate. That's how it felt." 

"Ah," Roderich's eyes lit up, the words a torch to a bonfire. "I was hoping so! See, it was just an experiment: that song. I was tuning, Gilbert, to  _ you _ . So only  _ you _ could tell me if it was accurate." 

_ Well, hey, wait—  _ "Suffering? You wrote a whole song about suffering for  _ me _ ?  _ That's _ my, what, my essence?  _ Suffering _ ?" 

"Don't take that tone with me. I was simply playing around with emotions when I played that song that night we met:  _ you _ chose this one. I didn't." 

_ Hmmm. I wouldn't say my essence is suffering. More like being awesome or... _ "What's yours, then?" 

"Mine...?" Roderich ran a hand through his hair again, strands of it falling out of it's style around his face. "I haven't quite perfected mine. Other people are— it's easier than looking in a mirror: where everything comes back to me in reverse. I'm far too close, and all that." 

"Play it." 

Roderich blinked several times. "Play it? It isn't finished, I—” 

"I want to see how it compares. Play it." 

"Mmmm..." Roderich's mouth skewered downwards, a slash of displeasure. "Alright then." He stood and walked out of the room. 

When he got just past the door, Gilbert called, "and maybe you should grab your 'reading glasses!'" 

Which earned him the briefest shake of Roderich's head before he vanished from sight.

In the meantime, Gilbert stood up and walked over to the piano. He flipped through the pages of notes Roderich had been playing. 

At the very beginning, they were labelled  _ Gilbert _ in messy, cursive writing. And then, below that,  _ to silent suffering. _

Gilbert held the pages gingerly between two fingers, and his expression settled somewhere between resignation and serious contemplation.  _ To silent suffering? _

Roderich re-entered the room, and Gilbert set the sheets of paper back down, resting a hand on his hip. 

"Don't touch my piano," Roderich said in a tone that suggested habit over scolding. The way Gilbert would say  _ don't touch me _ , to his friends trying to hug him. 

"I wasn't." Gilbert returned to his chair. "You have the song?" 

"I have what I have finished of it, yes." Roderich replaced the music he'd been playing with a new set. Then he sat down on his bench with all the gravity of a professional. 

Gilbert pulled his own chair a foot or so closer before also settling. 

"I should warn you," Roderich said, his fingers poised and ready, "that, as an unfinished piece, this is not the polished experience." 

"Well." Gilbert flashes a devilish grin. "That sounds just like you already." 

Roderich sighed, deeply, looking up at the ceiling as if praying. "Yes, Gilbert, very clever..." 

"I know." 

His eyes returned to the music. "But please, be quiet now." 

Gilbert sat forward, an elbow on his scarred knee, the contact a point of dull aching. A few hesitant notes and then the music washed over him.  _ Now, this... This sounds good. _ Like real music. Hardly discordant at all. Again, Gilbert closed his eyes, trying to focus. 

_ He's right, this doesn't resonate with me the way the other one did... _ It was beautiful, on the surface; like a homage to classical composing. But there was something off, just underneath the melodies, something that Gilbert didn't have the technical knowledge to place. He could only say that it felt wrong, occasionally: almost frantic. As if Roderich was falling constantly behind what he'd written. 

This became very evident when the music suddenly stopped and Roderich began to play one note over and over again. Gilbert thought that must be one of the mistakes he'd been warned about, but when he opened his eyes Roderich's concentration had not broken a fraction. The note repeated over, and over, and over, before-- in a flurry— Roderich's fingers were again flying over the keys. 

This time, the melodies were more unique, something else entirely, and, though still beautiful, more dissonant. Gilbert was about to close his eyes again when Roderich stopped, his hands pausing in mid-air. 

Gilbert gave the moment it's due, so he didn't step on Roderich's proverbial toes. But then Roderich sighed, and his hands dropped to his lap. 

"That's the most significant portion of what I have." 

"That was a lot nicer sounding than mine," Gilbert pointed out. 

"I have a lot more respect than you do," Roderich replied, moved a leg over the bench so that he was straddling it. 

Gilbert scoffed, crossing his arms. "I thought I was a willing cog in the system, doesn't that mean I have too much respect?" 

"You were, and yet you... I would go so far as to call you irreverent." 

_ I like that better. _ "How could that be?" 

"You're a complicated person." Roderich fixed him with a penetrative stare then, his dark eyes unreadable. "But I'm figuring it out." 

Gilbert crossed his arms a bit tighter. "That's not why I keep seeing you." 

"Isn't it? You're not trying as hard as you  _ could _ be for lust's sake." 

And he must have been right about  _ that _ because Gilbert knew that, if he put his mind to it, he could probably get anyone to sleep with him in whatever amount of time, so— "What's your song called?" 

"Er..." Roderich flipped some pages over. "Roderich." 

"Concise." A grin cracked Gilbert's defense. 

"Indeed." Roderich slumped back a bit. "So. That one. Thoughts? Can you manage them when they're not about you?" 

"I can— God, you're annoying: do people tell you that? They should-- your song was pretty, but it felt off. I thought that break between what sounded familiar and what didn't was really bizarre. Did you mean to do it that way?" 

"People do tell me that, you should be reassured to hear it. And, yes, that was the idea... Tedium, I suppose. That's the feeling I was looking for..." 

"Suffering and tedium." Gilbert's grin was not as sharp as it usually was. "Aren't we a pair?" 

"Things are never so simple..." Roderich ran a hand through his hair. "But. Yes. Quite." 

_ God, maybe this is getting too depressing. _ "What would you rather be?" 

Roderich seemed taken aback by the question. "What would I rather be...?" 

"Your perfect song. What is it? What’s the ideal you?" 

Roderich frowned, his eyebrows drawing together over his dark eyes. "I hadn't... Considered that." He said, at length. 

Gilbert, on the other hand, was open, his eyebrows going up, his palms facing the other man. "Seems like the logical next step: imagining how you want to be. At some point figuring out the present has to have a point." 

"I... Does it...?" Roderich looked at his sheets of music, the ones he'd written about his own soul, and he seemed to be staring right through them. 

"Of course it does! Time is going to move you forward whether or not you want to. Whether or not  _ you're _ ready." 

"I suppose it will..." He sounded dazed. 

Gilbert stood up, ready to shake Roderich back to an aware state— you know, if he  _ had _ to— and dropped a hand down on the pianist's shoulder. "So that's a no. You don't have an ideal self." 

"I do, but he doesn't  _ exist _ , Gilbert. How could I figure out the resonance of an... Of an idea!" 

"Roderich." Gilbert leaned down, close enough to smell a spicy aftershave that he knew he wouldn't ever be able to afford. "I hate to break this to you: but I'm  _ not _ the musician here. I have no idea. Get to know him better, maybe." 

"Get to— you're perfectly ridiculous, Gilbert! I hope you know that! I suppose you have your ideal man all figured out, hmmm?" 

"Ideal self? I did. Ideal man..." That edge returned to his grin, like sharpened steel. "...well, I'm still working on that." 

"I—” Roderich only then seemed to register how close they were. Those dark eyes widened slightly. And— 

There! 

_ He's blushing! Fuck yeah _ . 

Gilbert tasted victory. He leaned in closer, closer, his eyes closing, and then he

Was swept up and into Roderich's arms, almost stumbling backwards from how sudden it all was. 

"Wha—“  _ what just happened? _ "Wait!" 

Roderich was again holding him the way that they'd been intertwined on the dance floor, carefully keeping his weight even between flesh and metal legs. 

"Let's dance, Gilbert." Roderich said, too quickly. "Let's just dance again." 

_ Ahha, bit of a coward, huh? _ But, luckily for Roderich, Gilbert was a super understanding guy. He could wait. 

"Alright. But you're still leading." 

"I prefer to lead..." 

_ Do you now?  _ "Then lead." 

Roderich nodded once, his hair— brushed loose by his fingers— falling over his face, his posture nonetheless impeccable. There was no music playing: just the creaking of an old house settling, the muffled sounds of traffic somewhere else, and the low hum of insects in the gardens. They had to feel the rhythm between them, measured in heartbeats and boots against polished wood. In the sound of a slow breath in, and a deep sigh out. Crimson eyes trying to pierce a midnight sky. 

"Your leg, it must hurt." 

"I can keep going." 

"You shouldn't." 

"I don't know how to stop." 

"You ought to learn." 

"Tell me something I don't know..." 

"About me? That's a long list. You hardly know me." 

"But?" 

"A but? Why do you think there's a but? Because you're special?" 

"I am special." 

Gilbert could feel the way his hoodie folded around the hand pressed firmly against his lower back, just over the seam of it. Hand clasped in hand, and Roderich's didn't sweat: his skin remained cool. They'd been getting closer, inch by inch, the rigid form breaking down. 

"It's going to be light again soon, Gilbert." 

"You're scared." 

"Glass houses." 

Gilbert closed his eyes, let Roderich carry him through a few more rounds of the dance. Something barely brushed past his shoulder on a turn.  _ The piano? _

"You should get home," Roderich was slowing down. "I could take you home." 

Gilbert opened his eyes. "I'll walk." 

"Don't." 

"..." They came to a stop. Gilbert took a deep breath in through his nose like he'd seen addicts do before they picked up another cigarette. "I'm fine." 

"Please." 

And breathe out. 

"Okay." 


	4. Resonance

7:16/Gilbert: You can tell me you miss me at any time. 

12:11/Roderich: Is that how early you wake up??? 

12:12/Gilbert: When I'm not being forced to listen to weird shit at 3 am by a music gremlin it is. 

12:12/Roderich: Half of what you say is gibberish. 

12:13/Gilbert: Nah, you're just not very smart. 

12:13/Roderich: When I am going to hear you play the flute? 

12:14/Gilbert: Making fun of me playing the flute is not going to make you feel better about your intelligence. 

12:15/Roderich: Oh, I believe it will. 

12:15/Roderich: Set a time. You seem fond of that. 

12:16/Gilbert: Fine. Why not today at 10 pm, since you're such a night owl. 

12:17/Roderich: Good. I'll be at your door at 10 pm. 

12:17/Gilbert: MY door??!!

12:17/Gilbert: No! 

12:17/Gilbert: I knew I shouldn't have let you take me home. 

12:18/Roderich: See you then. 

12:18/Gilbert: No! 

12:18/Gilbert: Roderich. 

12:19/Gilbert: Why can't it be your house? 

12:22/Gilbert: You're insufferable. 

12:30/Gilbert: Wow. 

(Read by Roderich 12:30) 

\--------------------- 

Gilbert told Ludwig, with immeasurable reluctance, that he would be having a guest. 

"Ah," Ludwig had said— reasonably— "when?" 

"Tonight." 

Now. Ludwig was used to his own guest showing up for dinner almost every night at this point and was not a hypocrite, so he just nodded. "Should I make more dinner?" 

And there was where Gilbert really cringed. "No. He won't be here until 10." 

"Hmmm," Ludwig cut Gilbert to his very soul.  _ I know, little brother, I know! He's being unreasonable. He's completely unreasonable _ ! "Who is this friend?" 

"Roderich. The one I went to that dance with." Gilbert tried to be very casual, like it was no big deal. Kept his voice low and even.  _ Roderich? Ah, ha, what— dates with him? Pfft.. _ . 

"I see." 

"We might make some noise." Because he  _ had _ to be as considerate as possible, given the circumstances. 

"I see." Ludwig had nodded, once. Then, his eyebrows went slightly up. "What kind of noise...?" He had asked the question in a way that almost certainly meant that Gilbert's very casual tone had failed him. 

Instantly, his cheeks burned. "Flute. Music." The words came out a bit jumbled. 

"I see." Ludwig had said for the last time. 

And then, when it was brought up over dinner, Feliciano made some bold invitations regarding where Ludwig could go while Gilbert was "busy" that might have left them both cripplingly embarrassed, but at least got Ludwig out of the house for the night. 

Which brought Gilbert to Roderich, standing on his doorstep, at 10 pm exactly. 

"This is a nice enough place," Roderich observed, before he even uttered a greeting, stepping inside. 

"My brother works for BMW." 

"Mmm. Is your brother  _ here? _ " Roderich removed his shoes, setting them carefully next to Gilbert's one boot. 

"No. He went over to his boyfriend's house. At least I think that they're— nevermind that. He's out." Gilbert led Roderich into the apartment, through the kitchen. "Do you want a beer?" 

"No, thank you." Roderich peered over his glasses— wearing those again— with a critical eye. "You know, this place reminds me of a hospital, how spotless it is." 

"I like a clean space. Helps me think." Gilbert took him up a set of stairs to what used to be the guest room, flanked by a small balcony. 

It was as immaculately clean as the rest of the house but more barren: spartan-esque in design choice. He had a bed, a desk, an end table, and a bookshelf half filled with journals. That was it. There were no pictures beyond a single framed photo of him and Ludwig on the desk. 

"Jesus, apparently so." Roderich took a few quick steps across his room. "Does anyone even  _ live _ here?"

"Ha, ha." Gilbert picked up his flute case from where he'd set it out on his desk that morning. "I haven't been here that long." 

"Would it matter if you were?" Roderich almost sat down on the bed, but seemed to think better of it and instead sat down on the rolling chair pulled up by the desk. 

"It— I don't know. I haven't stayed anywhere very long since I was a kid. Why do  _ you _ care? You don't have to live here." 

"Because this is just far too sad, Gilbert." He picked up the picture on the desk as Gilbert assembled his flute. "Is your only friend really your brother?" 

"No." Gilbert tuned the instrument. 

"Hmmm. I wouldn't know it..." He set the picture down. Glanced over the blank walls. "I think this is the sign of some kind of neurosis." 

"Stop it." Gilbert played a scale up. 

Roderich folded one leg over the other, rested an elbow on the desk so he could rest his cheek on a loose fist. 

"You  _ are _ planning on staying here, aren't you?" Roderich asked. 

Gilbert shook his head. Played the scale back down. "This is temporary." 

"Why?" 

"Just because  _ you _ still live with your parents at your age, doesn't mean the rest of us are slacking off— now do you want to hear some music or not?" 

"I..." Roderich sighed. "Very well then. But I would like you to know your hostility isn't doing your insecurity as many favors as you think it is." 

"Insecure?" Gilbert didn't mean to snap. "You know. I'm a lot of things. That's not one of them." 

Roderich was unphased. "If you insist. Go on, then: play for me." 

"Yeah." Gilbert pulled out some old sheet music, some song he'd memorized years ago but couldn't quite recall now.  _ Should be like riding a bike... _

Roderich was finally quiet enough to hear him struggle a bit through the first half of the song before getting back into the rhythm and  _ totally nailing _ the second half, which more than made up for it. When he finished, it was with a very proud smile. 

Roderich nodded his approval. "Well," he commented, "it was certainly better than I imagined it would be. You must have practiced extensively at some point in your life." 

"I did, I did." Gilbert gave some small bows. After the second one he stage-whispered, " _ this is where you clap. _ " 

"Oh, is it now? Do you think you've earned that." 

"Yes. Clap. Now." 

"So forceful." Roderich clapped a few times, very delicately. "Yes, sir." 

_ Really can't get enough of that, huh? _ "Thank you. I'm glad to see you have the *faintest* idea of how to treat a real musician." 

"That is *not* what I sound like, and you had the nerve to call  _ me _ annoying the other night" 

Gilbert chuckled, pulling the flute into pieces again. "It's not a zero-sum game, unfortunately." 

"For whom?" 

"Both of us." He returned the silver instrument to its velvet case, fingers lingering over it. _ Funny, I forgot how... Fun it can be to do something creative and not something destructive _ . 

"I know that look!" Roderich leaned forward in Gilbert's desk chair. "Oh, yes. That is the look of— ah, this  _ settles _ it! I'm going to teach you piano." 

Gilbert groaned. "Great. I have regrets." 

"Nonsense."

\---------------------- 

So getting Ludwig out of the house for the night proved to be pointless.  _ Ah, well _ , Gilbert had thought, smirking to his reflection in the car window,  _ I hope he's getting something out of this. _

It was 11 pm, and they were back in the same room they always ended up in— in front of that grand piano. Roderich sat down with an air of undeniable authority, splaying his fingers across the keys. 

"Come here, Gilbert." 

"This is not what I agreed to." 

"Come here." 

Gilbert rolled his eyes, but did as he was asked, sitting down beside Roderich on the small piano bench, so that their thighs were pressed together. 

"Let me see your hands." 

Gilbert spread out his fingers the way that Roderich had just done. The other man studied them carefully, like a palm reader looking for the lines of fate, before he nodded. 

"I'm going to explain to you how to use these keys, which note goes to—” 

Gilbert grinned, sharing a joke with himself, mostly, and leaned in to play— though likely not well—  _ Chopsticks. _

"I see you've had some rudimentary education." 

Roderich laid a hand over one of the hands that Gilbert was playing with, and he faltered, the notes jamming up. 

Roderich's hand was warm, his skin soft. When he pulled the hand back, it dragged gently over paper skin, raising goosebumps all the way down Gilbert's legs. 

"So I suppose we can skip the basic tutorial in favor of something fun." 

"Something fun." Gilbert repeated, voice hoarse. 

Roderich caught his eyes then, a curious light sparking that was quickly answered by Gilbert breaking eye contact to stare down at the ivory keys, a blush creeping up at the edges of his cheeks. 

"In terms of music—” 

"I know what you meant, Roderich! When  _ you _ say fun,  _ you _ mean something extremely boring." 

"And what would you rather I meant?" 

Gilbert thought about his hobbies. He wasn't going to say, in that moment, exactly what he'd meant— he was pretty sure that they both knew, anyways. When he was gearing up to be a soldier he practiced shooting; he ran every morning; he worked out every afternoon. That had started in high school. He'd studied military history and played any kind of strategy game he could get his hands on. What did he do now? Research prosthetics and hospitals? Work to digitize his journals (when he wasn't increasing their length)? 

"Honestly... I'm not sure I'm much less boring nowadays." 

Roderich clicked this tongue. "Not the answer I was expecting. Have you really given up flirting so quickly?" 

"I— no. No, I was trying to level with you, Rod, and you—” Gilbert scoffed. "I can flirt with you  _ more _ if that's what you  _ want _ , but you seem to prefer earnesty and shit." 

"I don't need you to admit that you're as boring as I, Gilbert: I gathered as much from your terribly depressing room, and the very sorry state of your affairs. That is to say, your current lack of affairs." But Roderich was smiling to himself, just ever-so-slightly. Something Gilbert wouldn't have picked up the first night. 

"You think you're something, don't you," Gilbert muttered. "You think you're so clever; you've got me all figured out." 

"Well," Roderich tapped out a few notes the way someone would fidget, "I didn't intend to figure you out, if that makes you feel better." 

"It— no. It just makes me feel— whatever, Roderich. I can go back to flirting and forgo the burdening emotional depth of our relationship: I would prefer that, actually." Gilbert wiggled his eyebrows. 

Roderich cocked one of his. "Now, cut that out. You're so quick to disavow your feelings when you know very well that isn't what I meant." 

"How is this teaching me piano?" 

"Don't change the subject! But— if you must know— you're— as always— being difficult." 

"Fine let's make it easier!" Gilbert started to climb over top of Roderich, who sat backwards in alarm. 

"Gilbe—” 

"Move the bench out more." 

There was a series of scooting sounds as Roderich resisted, and Gilbert tried to kick the bench out for more leg room. 

"No! I'm certainly not—” 

"Scoot it out." He managed to get between the piano and Roderich, despite the tightness of the space, and he could sense victory was close. 

"This isn't helping you learn anything! What is you'r—” 

Gilbert stopped moving and settled down: right into Roderich's lap. He let his legs fall to either side of the legs now beneath him, toes touching the ground beside Roderich's. 

"Okay." 

" _ Okay?! _ Gilbert what— what is the  _ point _ of this?" 

Gilbert straightened up a bit, feeling Roderich's thighs shift slightly under him. 

"Now I have the best vantage point." It was almost too bad the musician couldn't see his wicked grin. It was fairly satisfied, and it would have probably pissed him off. 

"You're being ridiculous, and you're not taking this seriously at all. This is my livelihood—” 

"You make money doing this?" Gilbert rested his hands gently on top of Roderich's. 

"— ... This is my heart and  _ soul _ , and you have the audacity—” 

"I'm taking this so seriously. Look—” Gilbert put a little pressure on the hands below his, but not enough to make a noise. "— now I can  _ feel _ you play." 

"You know as well as I do that my playing under your hands is not going to teach you a damn thing, not to mention that—” 

"Is that the first time you've sworn?' 

"— I cannot see the— ... What? I'm sure it isn't." 

"I think it is." Gilbert leaned slightly back, feeling the way his back met Roderich's chest. "I was starting to think you were a prude." 

"Nonetheless. When I asked you to flirt I didn't mean..." Roderich sighed. "Ah, I don't need to see, really." 

"Nice!" Gilbert pressed down harder, enough to play a few discordant notes. He imagined, from the soft scoffing sound, how Roderich rolled his eyes behind him. 

"You can't do that. In fact— put your hands down in our lap, would you?" 

Doing that, tucking his arms against his sides and letting his hands curl in his lap, solidly placed Roderich's arms around him. And it was, almost, like a hug.  _ Wait, why am I being weird about this, I've been.. _ . Gilbert found that he couldn't remember the last time someone hugged him.  _ Huh. Well. I have been... Busy. _

Gilbert shifted again, settling himself closer against Roderich now that he'd been given permission to stay. He ignored the muffled protest against his back, the shaking of the other man's head. And then, when he was settled, he felt Roderich nestle his chin into the space between his shoulder and his neck.

Like lightning. 

Every single hair on his body raised. Roderich's warm cheek against his own. Goosebumps followed the initial wave of tingling. Roderich's soft breath tickling his jawbone.

Gilbert closed his eyes. 

_ Okay. I got myself into this. I chose this. I was trying to break hi— _

Roderich nuzzled a moment, as if adjusting a violin against his chin. 

_ Oh, God. Oh, fuck. _

Gilbert squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Music began below him, the notes rising up to tickle his face. 

His hands had balled into fists in his lap. Roderich leaned forward slightly. As his fingers danced, his arms left Gilbert's sides and pressed back in intermittently.  _ Like a bunch of a little hugs... _ God. He sounded like a lovestruck idiot. 

_ Get ahold of yourself _ . He wasn't even really listening to the music, at this point, the delicate sounds drowned out by his beating heart. 

So he didn't notice it trail off.

"I don't believe you're really listening," Roderich murmured, voice soft, breath tickling the rim of his ear.

It was unexpected, and for all the control that Gilbert thought he had— yes,  _ even _ nestled into Roderich's lap— his body reacted instinctively: jumping like he'd heard a gunshot. 

That also startled Roderich, who made a soft sound like "oh!" followed quickly by a chuckle as he realized what had happened. 

"I didn't take you for the sensitive type." Roderich sounded... Pleased. 

Indignant, Gilbert moved to stand up, but the moment he started to move Roderich wrapped his arms tight around him. 

"Oh, no, no. Hold on a moment," Roderich protested. 

Gilbert scoffed, as if his ears weren't burning. As if nothing was burning. Because. He. Wasn’t. Sensitive. 

"You know," he starts, his bravado ringing—  _ hopefully _ — louder than the feeling of his heart between them. "You know I could easily overpower you? You're not really holding me here." 

"I am aware, Gilbert, but you—” Roderich laughed again, the same chuckle, a bemused and breathy sound. "Oh, I knew you'd take pity on my poor frail self." 

That last part was delivered dryly. Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Don't be too sure." 

"Mmm." Roderich secured one arm around Gilbert's waist, wiggling fingers on the other. "Now let's see what else makes you tick, shall we?" 

"No—” Gilbert wasn't the kind of person who felt regret, but he was beginning to think he'd committed a tactical error. "I'm not ticklish, Rod— stop doing that!" 

Gilbert tried to smack the hand away, twisting, and, in doing so, kicked the bottom of the piano with his prosthetic leg. 

"Watch that!" Roderich then  _ did _ let go of him, but to put the hand that had been around his waist onto his  _ thigh _ . 

_ Fuck! _

"Rode—” 

Gilbert shifted again, and Roderich's hand tightened on his thigh. "I'll move us! Don't kick my piano!" 

"You don't have the strength to move me—” Roderich's hand slid up his thigh, towards his waist, where Gilbert would have assumed that he was going to try and shift him off to the side of the bench. Would have assumed. Had his brain not completely short-circuited the moment Roderich's hand trailed up. 

Gilbert interrupted himself with a very uncharacteristic sound which he wouldn't call a _ yelp _ because, well... It wasn't important  _ what _ it was. 

Roderich laughed again, but this wasn't the sort of soft, breathy laugh he'd given before. This one came from his chest with the same feverish intensity Gilbert caught only sometimes breaking through the cracks. 

It did  _ not _ reassure him. 

"That was  _ not _ —” 

"Turn around, Gilbert." 

_ Turn around? Like... straddle him kind of turn around...? _ Gilbert left out a puff of breath. "Finally stopped being able to resist all this, huh?" 

"Mmm." Roderich lifted his hands, giving Gilbert space. "Turn around." 

"Doing my best," Gilbert muttered, awkwardly shifting his legs off to the side of the bench before negotiating one over Roderich— who bent back a bit to allow him to— so that he was straddling his lap. 

"Is that what you wanted? Was that sexy?" Gilbert said, crossing his arms. 

Roderich was grinning, his dark eyes burning. "Yes, sir." 

_ Fuck _ . 

"Uncross your arms, Gilbert!" Roderich titled his head up. "Isn't this what you wanted?" 

"It..." Gilbert let Roderich pull his arms apart, rest them on his shoulders. "Yes." 

"Good, then." Roderich reached up and stroked his cheek: nails trailing over skin made sensitive by a refusal to ever be touched gently. 

The effect was immediate, and Gilbert cursed his lack of training in this particular area even as he failed to fight the heat blossoming in the pit of his stomach, spreading all across his body. Under Roderich's fingertips, his jaw twitched, teeth clenching. Biting back a moan. 

"Oh! Oh, you're so  _ easy _ ! I thought, for all your bravado—” 

"I'm not  _ easy _ —” Gilbert hadn't meant to growl, but it came out that way with his teeth clenched so tightly. Not that that seemed to do anything to staunch Roderich's excitement. 

"Shut-up. Gilbert." Roderich's hand ran up the back of his neck before his fingers wrapped tightly in his hair. 

Sharp intake of breath. "Rod—” 

"You were a good soldier, weren't you?" Roderich pulled him closer. "Follow orders." 

_ God damn _ . Now he was close enough that he could feel Roderich's breath against his lips. Could imagine how soft...

"Not as much the stiff, pretentious noble you like to pretend you are, huh?" 

"Not as much the charming rouge you like to pretend to be, are you?" 

_ God, he's so close and _ — "Can you just fucking lead already?!" 

A snort. A sound that he was fast associating with Roderich. And then— 

His lips were not soft. They were chapped, dry, and warm. Gilbert sank into them as if he hadn't ever hesitated. He knew his own lips tasted like chapstick, like...

It was a rough, sudden kiss. He caught Roderich's lip between his teeth the moment they parted, biting down, the dry skin cracked easily, splitting under his tongue so he tasted blood.  _ Idiot, take better care of— _ he sucked on the lip, Roderich's fist clenching in his hair so that Gilbert had to fight to keep his mouth pressed to his. 

_ When was the last time I kissed someone...  _ Maybe he should have been asking himself  _ when had it ever felt like this...? _ Desperate but simple; electric but base. 

Their first kiss tasted like chapstick and blood. They had to break apart to breath. 

"You hurt me," Roderich muttered, the tongue that had just been in Gilbert's mouth prodding the split in his lip. 

Gilbert let his forehead rest against the other man's. "I barely bit you. You're just weak." 

"You'll pay for that." 

"Will I? I  _ highly _ doubt that," Gilbert grinned like the devil himself, and he saw Roderich's eyes flash. 

"Again," Roderich commanded. 

This time it was Gilbert: "Yes, sir." 

He was leading now, softer this time; deeper this time. On the bench, he shifted up onto his knees, trying to change his angle so that he could better catch Roderich's tongue, so that he could better— 

They tipped the bench over. Gilbert didn't even have the time to react before he was tumbling down on top of Roderich, who yelped the moment he hit the floor. 

"Ow!" Roderich complained. 

Gilbert laughed, raising himself up over Roderich, whose glasses had been knocked off during the fall. "Just ow?" 

"What do you  _ mean _ 'just' ow?! You fell  _ on top _ of me! You aren't  _ light _ , Gilbert!" 

"Hmmm. I think I should be. I lost more than a few pounds overseas." 

Roderich rolled his eyes. "Yes, I— you didn't  _ kick _ my piano did you?" 

"I don't think so." 

"Mmmm, Then I suppose I can be emotionally alright, at the very least. I do think I hit my head." 

Gilbert ran a hand through Roderich's hair— he noted with amusement the feeling of mousse— and watched for any expressions of pain. None. "I think you'll be alright." 

He didn't want to stop running his hands through that hair. He wanted to absolutely  _ destroy _ the careful styling. He wanted to take Roderich apart meticulously presented piece by piece. 

"You live here right?" He asked, not having heard a word Roderich was replying. 

"Yes, of course I li—” 

"So you sleep here, too?" 

"I— Gilbert if you are asking me to take you to my room, I really don't understand why you're going about it like  _ this! _ " 

"I'm—” Gilbert was going to argue, but Roderich simply cocked an eyebrow, and he bit his tongue. "Take me to your room." 

"Thank you." Roderich sat up, Gilbert climbing off of him, around the bench they'd spilled off of. 

"Now be quiet on the way, won't you? Other people are sleeping." 

" _ I'm _ normally sleeping."

"Hush." Roderich took his hand. They left his glasses on the floor, they left the piano a mess, they left all the lights on. 

The rest of the house was just as nice as Gilbert expected, even in the dark. Paintings loomed around them, in gilded frames, their footsteps swallowed up by plush rugs laid over shining hardwood floors. 

Roderich moved like a burglar in the night, clearly used to taking this path back to his room, up at least two flights of stairs. Neither of them spoke a word until Roderich had shut a door firmly behind them. They didn't turn on the lights in that room either. No time. 

As soon as that door shut, Roderich was shoving him back and down onto a four-poster bed, sinking together with him into the goose-down comforter. Mouths found each other again. Roderich got his hands under Gilbert's shirt, skin against skin. 

"Ah..." Gilbert couldn't stop the soft noise. Or the next one as Roderich took full advantage of the stretch of his stomach and chest. "Ah!" 

His body reacted without his permission, jumping to the touch, arching up into the other man. 

"My, are you eager," Roderich muttered, Gilbert's hands tensed around his hips, thumbs digging into the flesh just above the bones. 

" _ Shut _ —” Roderich swallowed his next words, stopped his tongue with his own. 

_ God, his hands _ . They danced over skin, over his chest, pausing to pull at his pants. Gilbert moaned before Roderich did, the sound against his teeth. Between the two of them, fumbling in the dark, they managed to get undressed so that they were both in their underwear, tangled up together. 

There, Gilbert got a bit lost. He was thinking about Roderich's hands, about the way his mouth tasted; he was thinking about the hair under his fingers; he was thinking about the knee between his legs. And then he was just kissing Roderich, laying in an unfamiliar bed, kissing someone he hardly knew as if it were the last thing keeping him tethered to his body. 

_ I want... _ For what felt like a long time after the initial, begging, burst of energy, they lay together and tried to figure out what made them one. Hardly moving. Hardly breathing. Trying to force two distinct melodies into one... Resonance. 

"Gilbert..." Roderich finally whispered, as if anything else would shatter what peace they'd found, "I want you to take me..." 

The words sent a new and urgent bolt of heat straight south. "Okay." And he knew it was a stupid and rather unsexy answer, but it was the best he could do at the moment. 

"There's lube on... There's— it's in the bedside table and, you shouldn't worry, I've prepared." 

"Okay," he repeated, mechanically reaching towards the drawer before the rest of the words registered. "You— wait, what now?" 

"I've prepared myself. For this date." 

Gilbert was having a hard time focusing enough to process what that meant. "You... Did? You expected us to—” 

"I... after last time...I felt I'd been a coward: I didn't want to miss the opportunity again. I certainly didn't think  _ you'd _ be taking the initiative." He raised up on an elbow, Gilbert rummaging around a minute before finding lube. "I was being pragmatic." 

_ He was being... _ "That's the hottest thing you've said to me so far." 

"I  _ know _ that that isn’t the case." 

Gilbert straddled Roderich for the second time that night, the moonlight cutting across his face. His dark eyes alight— intense— his hair a mess again, across the pillow, across his forehead. And he felt such satisfaction with the picture.  _ Gilbert, I want you to take me... _

_ Fuck _ . 

Gilbert took one of those hands, pressing the bottle into it. Roderich took the cue, rubbing lube between his slender,  _ magical _ fingers while Gilbert shimmied out of his underwear on top of him. As soon as his erection was free, Roderich had his hands on it, fingers slipping against one another as he stroked. 

"God,  _ fuck _ , Rod. Yes, _ fuck _ you're good with your hands." Gilbert rocked his hips into those hands before he could control the impulse. He allowed himself a deep moan. "Spread your legs." 

Roderich obeyed, spreading himself open beneath the albino, drawing up his knees the moment Gilbert got his underwear off. (A nicer material, of course. Silk.) 

_ Is he bigger than— _ Gilbert shoved that thought as far back into his mind as he could manage it, trying to focus on his lover's body. He braced a hand next to Roderich's head, sinking into a pillow, the other hand cutting up between his legs. He presses a finger up against his asshole, and the sharp intake of breath Roderich takes almost makes him too weak at the knees to stay upright. 

Gilbert wants to be inside of him  _ now _ , he wants to have been inside of him  _ already _ . 

Working much slower than he wants, Gilbert pressed a finger inside of Roderich, whose head falls back, his mouth pulling into a deliciously tight line.  _ God, he's pretty. _

Deeper. Deeper. The hand that Roderich didn't have on his cock, grasped at the blankets. 

"Oh,  _ yes _ , Gilbert, _ there _ —” Roderich hissed, his entire body tensing. "Again." 

"Be patient," Gilbert growled, a terse reflection of his own mental state. 

A second finger was worked in next to the first and Roderich's grip, for a just a minute, got tighter, causing Gilbert to buck his hips into it. 

"Ah..." Roderich did not take his advice, he instead pressed himself down into the fingers harder than Gilbert had been moving. 

"You fucking— fine!" Gilbert leaned down and bites his neck, hard enough to mark, pulling his fingers free. Roderich did  _ not _ like that move. 

"Gilbert, don't you dare—” 

"Sshhh, shhhh, shh— I'm on top now." Gilbert bit his neck again. 

"Oh, you are  _ absolutely _ insufferable, I—” 

Their lips crashed together, Gilbert moving between his legs, feeling Roderich's heels at the small of his back, his thighs wrapping around his waist. 

"Let's just. Enjoy this." Gilbert said against the kiss, a hand on Roderich's shoulder, the other between them.

Roderich's breath caught. "Get on with it then." 

Gilbert pressed into him, into his body. "You're beautiful," he muttered, "you're beautiful." He wasn't even sure what he was saying. 

Clumsily, a hand found its way into that hair  _ that stupid fluffy hair _ . Roderich felt good, he felt  _ right _ : tight, and hot, and making these completely uninhibited whimpering sounds. 

_ God. Fuck. _

They moved together, in rhythm, in perfect harmony with each other. Gilbert didn't have much experience— he'd been  _ busy! _ — but none of what he had had been like  _ this. _

"Roderich, fuck, Rod, fuck, you— God, you're so fucking hot like this..." He didn't really hear himself. Nails dragged down his back, he could feel them, feel the trails they would leave. 

Even here, even beneath him, Roderich was much quieter than he was: undone, but still held together at the ends, his moans velvet, his every desperate movement a dance. 

And then: crescendo. 

Brilliant and deafening; Gilbert, for what might have been the first time in his life, stopped thinking. He held Roderich as close as he could hold him, burying his cry in his neck. Below him, he felt Roderich spasm, felt his moan reverberate through his bones. 

They lay beside each other, tangled in blankets, skin damp, hair sticking to foreheads. Held together by the gentlest touch of two hands in the darkness. Beating hearts. Disjointed breathing. 

"Are you..." Roderich's voice trailed off into the night. 

Gilbert turned his head, squinting into the moonlight. "It was good." 

Were they whispering? Had he meant to?

"...still scared? Any less scared?" Roderich's voice found them again. 

_ Ah…  _ Made honest by sensitivity, made honest by the stripping down of his guard in the most intimate manner, Gilbert drew in a breath. 

"No." 

Roderich's fingers interlaced with his: hard. Tight. "Stay?" 

"Yes."


End file.
